


I'm Not Sure But We Might Be Doing This In The Wrong Order

by vyrenrolar



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Bloodwine, But really all Ferengi have a business language kink, F/M, Group Sex, M/M, Multi, No Smut, Nothing happens onscreen, Prune juice, Quark has a business language kink, Threesome - F/M/M, Worf gets offended, jadzia dies offscreen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 01:37:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19218961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vyrenrolar/pseuds/vyrenrolar
Summary: Worf and Quark approach each other for...favors.





	I'm Not Sure But We Might Be Doing This In The Wrong Order

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katiemariie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiemariie/gifts).



“Ferengi!” Worf’s booming voice reached Quark’s ears just as he was finishing locking up the bar.

“We’re closed, Commander, and I’ve had a very long day. So unless your bribe comes in the form of  _ several _ bars of latinum, you’re going to have to wait for your prune juice until morning.” Quark rubbed the bridge of his nose. He could feel a Starfleet-induced headache coming on.

“I wish to speak to you in private,” said the Klingon, stopping a couple of meters away from the bartender. It was then that Quark noticed that Worf was conspicuously out of uniform, and that his massive mane of hair was unrestrained.

“Can it wait?”

“No.”

Quark sighed. “Very well.” He then proceeded to undo all six locks and remotely disarm the motion and heat sensors (he was very protective of his bar; the only other person with the requisite codes and biometrics was his brother, Rom, who was too stupid to try to steal anything from him anyway). “But if this is just an attempt to get a drink, I will charge you quadruple.”

Worf grunted. “It is not.” Once they were both inside, and the bar had been relocked, he stood at ease, staring pointedly at a nearby spot on the wall. “Recently, Jadzia has expressed an interest in participating in something called a ‘threesome.’”

At this, Quark choked on his own saliva. “And you came to  _ me _ ?” He started laughing dubiously.

“Yes. When I presented you as a candidate, Jadzia was amenable. I will not have to worry about the two of you developing feelings for each other, nor do I need to be concerned about your skill as a lover, if your myriad of previous lovers are to be believed.”

Quark gaped like a Tirkanian trout, an impressive feat considering he only had one row of teeth. When he had regained control of his facial muscles, he asked, “Are you certain you don’t just want me to recommend a good holosuite program?”

“Our negotiation was quite clear. We want you, Ferengi. Do you wish to participate? If not, I am certain I could convince Doctor Bashir or Major Kira.”

Quark’s ears perked up at the word “negotiation.” By the time Worf mentioned the prospect of seeking out his competition, he was sold. He grinned widely at the other man, grabbed a bottle of Bloodwine from behind the counter, and gestured to the door. “I’m assuming tonight is convenient for you?”

Worf snarled in affirmation. It was going to be an interesting night.

 

-/\\-

 

Quark ran to catch up with Worf. It had been three years to the day since their last dalliance, and much had changed. Jadzia had died, Quark’s idiot brother was now the Grand Nagus, and despite Quark’s most persuasive arguments, his nephew Nog had risen to the rank of Lieutenant and was now DS9’s Chief Engineer.

“Not now, Ferengi. I am busy.”

“Just...stop walking for a minute. Your legs are practically twice as long as mine!”

Worf growled, but acquiesced. He did not look at Quark.

Quark finally caught up, though at this point he was doubled over and had to gasp for breath. “I just...wanted to tell you,” here he took an enormous gulp of air and straightened up, “that Grilka is on the station for a few days.”

Worf sneered, still not looking at him. “Is this information relevant to me in any way?”

Quark ignored him and steamrolled on. “I was wondering, hoping, rather, that you might find time in your schedule to have dinner with us.”

Worf finally looked at Quark, his eyebrow raised. “Dinner?”

Quark brushed the word aside. “That’s not the important part. We were talking, and I asked if she was interested in group sex, and she didn’t want to sleep with any of the Dabo girls (though I don’t know why; they’re all perfectly serviceable), but then I thought of you, and I figured, well, it couldn’t hurt to ask.”

Worf wrinkled his nose. “You have offended me, Ferengi.”

Quark’s eyes widened. Perhaps it could hurt to ask, after all.

“Why was I not your first choice?”

Quark’s mouth dropped open.

“I will come to your quarters tonight at 2200 hours. Provide Bloodwine.” With that, the Klingon resumed his journey down the Promenade. Quark continued to gape for a few moments, then shook his head and returned to the bar.

 

-/\\-

 

Worf and Quark were once again glaring at each other over the dinner table. Four years had passed since that day on the Promenade, and once again, much had changed. After Grilka left the station, they had begun spending more time together. At first, it was due to Worf’s disgust at the state of Quark’s physical health (“I would not see you desperate for breath after barely exerting yourself.”). Then, of course, they simply had to make time to finish one of many interrupted arguments (“I don’t care how refined Klingon Opera is, it literally makes my ears bleed!”). Gradually, they had begun having dinner together once a week, then twice, then whenever their respective schedules permitted it.

Others on the station thought it an odd friendship. It seemed, after all, that all they did was disagree, and loudly at that. Worf could frequently be heard snarling at Quark behind closed doors, and the Ferengi was seen limping into sickbay multiple times a week. Of course, the Klingon was often close behind, nursing his own wounds. They both seemed happier than they had been in a while, and neither was ever permanently injured, so everyone pretty much let them be. When pressed, Worf would assure those concerned that it was a private matter, and Quark would sneer something along the lines of, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” In fact, none of the Dabo girls had been harassed or asked for sexual favors in years, and Worf no longer threw temper tantrums in Vic’s club.

In the quiet of their respective quarters, they would often think of each other and smile, looking forward to whenever they would next do battle, be it over philosophy, dinner, or sex.


End file.
